


fortune

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Minor Injuries, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 03:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean's day alone goes badly. Sam helps.





	fortune

**Author's Note:**

> from an anonymous prompt:  
>  _one of the boys is having a horrible day for very trivial reasons (accidentally nicked himself shaving, slammed the door on his hand, phone died inconveniently etc) and then other tries help. cue: (DRUMROLL) SEX but with the one still halfheartedly grumpy_

He wakes up slow, to an empty bed. He lays there for a few minutes, face half-buried in the pillow and making sure his breath comes steady, even. In half an hour he won’t even be able to really remember what he’d been dreaming about. No sense in dwelling on it.

He slept like shit, though—they got home late, after dealing with that annoying bitch of a naiad who’d been drowning guys on Lake Superior, and he hadn’t wanted to stay anywhere near water, just wanted to get back to their bed. His ribs are all bruised to shit, and his right wrist—he rotates it slowly, shuffling down the hall, and okay, maybe Sam’s right, maybe he did sprain it.

The kitchen’s empty, when he wanders in. No coffee in the pot, and no grounds left in the jar when he checks. Groceries kept slipping down the priority list, with the last few hunts they’ve been on. He looks into the nearly-empty fridge, holding his wrist up against his chest, vague unease still lapping slowly at the back of his mind. Maybe he can force Sam to make the run into town. Surely he must’ve earned a day off, by now.

When he heads into the library to try to wheedle Sam, though, it’s empty, too. He checks his watch—it’s already ten, so Sam ought to be back from a run if he took one, the freak, and—oh. A note, propped on Sam’s laptop. _Got a tip on a grimoire in Topeka_ , it says, in Sam’s goofy handwriting. _Home late._ Dean drops the note on the table and sighs, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. Okay, so no lounging around with Sammy. He can get some stuff done, instead.

The weird unease from the morning lingers, though, and his wrist—god, it really is starting to hurt. He wraps it up himself but he’s always awkward with his left hand and the bandage fits a little weird, and it still aches as he separates their clothes out of the duffels they’d just dropped when they got home, as he starts the laundry. Almost out of detergent, too. The Impala’s due for an oil change and he manages it with one and a half hands, but it’s a bitch, and he manages to spill about half the old oil right onto the concrete when he fumbles the tray unthinking. That’s a fun half-hour of cleanup.

He hasn’t heard from Sam by one o’clock, and there’s a headache lingering behind his eyes. Lack of caffeine, probably, so he forces himself to sack up and make the damn grocery run. There’s hardly anyone in town, not that there ever really is, and the store’s empty but for him and Estelle at the register, who doesn’t even look up at him when he comes in. Coffee, beer, laundry detergent, milk and Sam’s stupid plain cornflakes and stuff he can turn into lasagna, and Estelle just stares at him dourly when he gets up to the counter and tells him the credit card machine is broken. “Of course it is,” Dean says, under his breath, and her expression goes even stonier. That kills the cash in his pocket, though he still slips his fourteen cents in change into the little canister for cancer kids, or whatever. “Have a good one,” he says, and Estelle just grunts at him and goes back to her US Weekly. Okay, then.

The bunker’s only about four miles from Lebanon, out in the empty farm country that hides it from normal people. It’s a bright day, humid and hot with summer, and he rolls down the window as he heads out of town, watches the corn and wheat fields drift by. He’s about halfway home, _Sticky Fingers_ pumping out loud on the tapedeck, when something—shudders, and he grabs the wheel tight with both hands and then there’s an awful _snap_ and the engine shrieks and he stamps on the brakes, squeals to a halt with gravel spraying around him, and then—oh, oh _shit_ , and he pops the hood and scrambles out of the car into the thick air and the engine’s still ticking, trying to cool, and—fuck. Fuck. “Fuck!” he says, loud into the empty everything, because that was the goddamn _timing belt_ and he can’t tell, not right away, what damage has been done. It’s only been fifty thousand miles, why—

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he says, propping himself on the sun-hot frame. He closes his eyes. “I’m gonna fix this, I swear. I swear.” He rubs a hand over his face, through his hair. He’s already sweating. Hard to see how the day could get worse from here.

 

It’s almost seven when he makes it home, easing the Impala along as slowly as possible. When he walked back to town the co-op had had a belt, thank god, but he was going to have to order an actually good one from Chevy and rebuild about four things from scratch to make sure everything’s in order. They’ve really got to invest in a truck with a tow package.

He’s sweaty and aching and smeared all over with engine grease when he finally rolls her into the garage bay, babying her down the ramp. He just sits there when he turns the engine off, rests his forehead against the wheel.

Sam’s sitting in the library when he comes in, flipping through some ancient book with his laptop at his elbow. He doesn’t really glance up when Dean comes in, clearly absorbed in whatever crap is in the stupid grimoire. “Hey, where have you been,” he says, apparently to the book, while Dean stands there, still sweating. “Oh, do you have plans for dinner? I’m starving.”

For a second Dean just stares, and then for another second he gets a very real and powerful urge to punch Sam directly in the throat. He shouldn’t. If nothing else, it would fuck up his wrist even more. “Groceries in the car,” he says instead, voice something strangled, and heads directly for the shower.

He’s been standing still for fifteen minutes, eyes closed, just letting the blast of hot water hit him between the shoulderblades, when the door to the shower room opens.

“Hey,” Sam says, again, somewhere behind him. Sounds like he’s actually paying attention, this time. Dean grunts, doesn’t bother opening his eyes. There’s a pause, and under the rush of water he can’t really hear much. When big hands alight on his hips he flinches, almost slipping on the slick tile, but then Sam’s hands tighten and he’s kept upright.

“Don’t sneak up on people in the shower, dick,” he says, and it maybe comes out harder than he meant, but—fuck, cracking his head open would just be the perfect end to the day.

“Sorry,” Sam says, soft, and he does actually kind of sound sorry. He slides his hands carefully up over Dean’s ribs, over his wet back, and the touch feels… nice. “How’s the wrist?”

Dean got rid of the bandages somewhere in the middle of his half-assed belt replacement, since it was smeared to shit with grease and the wrap was coming loose, anyway. It’s been throbbing, since then. “Hurts,” he says, trying for stoicism, but his voice comes out all thick. Sam’s hands squeeze his shoulders, briefly, and then they disappear for a minute.

“Here,” Sam says, tapping his arm, and Dean opens his eyes to see Sam holding three pills just outside the spray of water—aspirin, looks like, and Dean sighs and takes them, swallows them dry, and then Sam’s hand reappears holding an open El Sol.

“Beer in the shower?” Dean says, and Sam says, “Why not?” and, really, that’s not a bad point. He takes the bottle in both hands, because with the way things have been going he’ll probably drop it and slice open his foot, and the few cold swallows go easy down his throat. Sam takes the bottle out of his hand and sets it down somewhere with a clink, and then his hands return to Dean’s back, sliding smoothly on either side of his spine in long, slow strokes. Dean drops his head, shifts an inch or two so the water’s hitting him on the back of the neck and pouring down over where Sam’s hands are moving.

After a few minutes, Sam says, “Saw the tool box was out. And the cat litter on the concrete.” Dean sighs. Sam digs his thumbs into the muscle at the base of his neck, pushing in slow pulses. “I was going to put the laundry in the dryer but I think it’s broken, or something.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean says, groaning, and Sam laughs, quietly.

“Milk was spoiled, too,” he says, and Dean just wants to sit down and never leave the goddamn shower. “I’m guessing it’s been quite the day.”

“How was Topeka?” Dean says, a little more sarcastic than he means to be. Sam doesn’t snark back, just squeezes his shoulders, and the tops of his biceps, and Dean sighs, again.

“You’ve got grease everywhere,” Sam says. He lets go of Dean, briefly, and when he comes back a slick washcloth smears over Dean’s shoulders, scrubs firmly up over his neck and up over the back of his head, even. “Did you take a bath in it, or something?”

“You try removing a crank pulley on the side of the road in July and see if you can keep it neat and tidy,” Dean says, and he can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes.

The washcloth scrubs down his arms, and Sam moves in closer, his chest pressing up against Dean’s back when he washes over Dean’s good wrist and then so-carefully over his hurt one. He tucks his free arm around Dean’s waist, holding his forearm gently and swabbing Dean’s fingers, one by one, and Dean leans back into the solid warmth of him, their skin slick together in the water. It feels good, not that he’s going to tell Sam that. Sam’s mouth presses up against his temple, though, his jaw prickly against Dean’s steam-soft skin.

“Can I take your mind off it?” Sam says, quiet, his thumb pressing gently into Dean’s palm.

“No,” Dean says, just to be contrary, and Sam snorts, right against his ear. “I heard that.”

“Sure did,” Sam says, and steps in even closer so Dean can feel his dick pressing softly up into the small of his back, just above Dean’s ass. He keeps Dean tugged in close with one arm and with the other scrubs the washcloth over Dean’s collarbones, over his chest, lets it scrape over his nipples. He keeps his eyes closed, lets his head droop down so his chin’s nearly touching his chest, and Sam kisses the back of his neck, the knob at the top of his spine, and the washcloth smears over his stomach and lower, over the top of his thighs, and then Sam carefully cups his balls, makes Dean’s breath hitch in his chest.

“Spread,” Sam says, voice soft, and Dean obligingly shuffles his feet further apart so that the washcloth can go—further, dragging slick behind his balls, all the way behind to his ass, and he grabs at Sam’s arm where it’s holding him steady, arches a little, and then Sam drops the washcloth to the tile floor with a splat and then it’s Sam’s bare fingers, dragging firm over his hole and then back to his balls and then, finally, to his dick where he’s half-hard, plumping up just from this. He groans and Sam says, “What was that?” with his voice all light, and Dean says, “Shut up,” and curls his bad wrist up against his chest, fumbles his other hand around to Sam’s hip to keep him close, and Sam kisses against the back of his neck, smiling, and jerks him firmly, letting the water slick the way, wrist pumping and his grip just-right. He shudders out a moan and Sam’s thumb drags messily over the head of him, long fingers reaching down to cup his balls, and then he stops playing and just—works, perfect practiced grip and a little harder than Dean usually goes with himself but that just makes it better, because he could jerk himself off any time but this is Sammy, taking care of him, for long steady minutes while Dean’s breath comes harder, something coiling up deep in his belly, tension knotting, and then Sam kisses over his shoulder and sets his teeth against the straining tendon in Dean’s throat and pumps, steady pressure, and he slides his other hand down Dean’s belly and behind his balls and presses two long fingers deep into his taint and—oh, _god_ , Dean comes like that, jerking forward into Sam’s grip, on a long thin groan that tears out of his throat, and he drops his hand down to cover Sam’s where it’s still jerking him even as he spurts into the stream of water and his wrist throbs at him but he—he just holds onto Sam’s hand, follows the movement as Sam pulls everything out of him, until he’s empty, and he sags back against Sam’s body, thighs trembling.

“Whoa, don’t pass out,” Sam says, catching him around the chest. Sam’s arm squeezes a little against the trailing edge of Dean’s bruises, but he can’t really care right now.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dean manages. It feels like his muscles have gone liquid. Sam hasn’t let his dick go, is just sliding his thumb up and down the hot tender skin, and—oh, he’s sensitive, but—but—he just keeps his hand light over Sam’s, shakes and wonders when his breath might finally steady out. Sam’s hard, pressing firm and hot against his back, and Dean thinks _yes_ , in no more detail than that.

“Feeling better?” Sam says, and Dean works up the strength to turn around, finally, and Sam lets him go just enough that he can fit himself right back against Sam’s chest, his bad wrist tucked up between them. Sam resettles his arm around Dean’s shoulders, the other hand cupped under the curve of his ass, and his dick’s now pressing slick against Dean’s belly.

Dean grinds in a little closer, watches Sam’s eyelids flicker. His hair’s soaked, plastered close to his skull, and Dean drags it back from his forehead, cups the back of Sam’s head in his good hand. Sam just watches him, thumb dragging idly against the lower curve of Dean’s ass.

“No,” Dean says, finally, and Sam frowns at him. He rubs his stomach against where Sam’s leaking on him and licks his lips, and smiles when Sam’s eyes drop to his mouth. “Think I might need more distraction.”

Sam blinks, eyelashes spiky, his cheeks flushed dark. “I could do that,” he says, after a second, and Dean snorts, leans back and turns off the faucet, finally. Good thing the water heater here is bottomless. Sam lets go of him long enough to grab a towel and wrap it over his shoulders, and then Dean’s being kissed, properly, Sam’s hand big and wide over the back of his neck. Dean thinks, well, he’ll take a look at the dryer tomorrow, and then he doesn’t really have to think much of anything, after that.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/163347445079/hmm-im-not-good-with-prompts-but-one-of-the-boys)


End file.
